


The Right Direction

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Disabled Character, Captain Cobra - Freeform, F/M, First Time, Minor Character Death, Smut, UST, mention of Neal Cassidy, mention of liam jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Henry thought he’d get away with this ploy a second time is beyond her, but he always was her little optimist.  In which Henry is tired of his mother pretending she doesn’t like Killian Jones, and decides to give her a little push.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Direction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wtvoc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday gift for the fabulous this-too-too-sullied-flesh, who told me that she was quite partial to a storyline that involved Henry doing a spot of matchmaking. Thank you for being such an amazing fandom buddy and making my dash a better place, and not just by writing such top-notch smut. :)

~*~

 

_I’d be delighted, love.  Shall I pick you up or would you prefer to meet downstairs?  KJ_

“What the hell?”

Emma stares at the text message.  She knows it’s early on a Monday morning and she’s yet to even  _sniff_ a coffee bean, but she’s pretty sure she doesn’t have a freaking clue what Killian Jones, aka the guy who owns the travel agency next to her apartment building, is talking about. 

“Hey Mom, did you sign that permission slip for me?”  Henry skids into the kitchen, his schoolbag over one shoulder.  “We’re going to the maritime museum tomorrow, remember?” 

Emma looks up from her phone in time to not only see her son come to an abrupt halt, but also catch the flicker of guilt that dances across his face.  “Uh, never mind.”  He starts to back up, giving her a hasty wave as he tries to make his escape. “I can hand it in tomorrow. See you after school.”

 Even before she was the mother of a teenaged boy, Emma’s ability to sniff out a guilty conscience had been pretty damned good.  Now, though, it’s through the roof.  “Hold it right there, kid.” She holds her phone up so he can see the screen.  “Something you want to tell me?”

Seeing the struggle in his face, she finds herself hiding a smile, despite her irritation.  How he thought he’d get away with this ploy a second time is beyond her, but he always  _was_ her little optimist.  “I was just trying to help,” he finally confesses, his mouth turning down at the corners in a way that reminds her a little too much of his father.  “I  _know_ you like him.”

Telling herself that the sudden heat in her face has nothing to do with finding out that her son knows about her ridiculous crush on Killian Jones, she shoots a stern look across the kitchen. “I thought we’d decided that you weren’t going to do this again, not after what happened with Walsh.”

Henry’s still lurking on the other side of the island bench, staring at his feet.  “He likes you too, you know.”

Her stomach flutters at  _that_  piece of information, but she manages to keep glaring. “ _Henry_.”  

He glowers at his feet (the stubborn set of his jaw definitely comes from  _her_ , she decides), then finally lifts his head to meet her eyes.  “ _Fine_. I’ll tell him it was me who sent it and you don’t want to go out to dinner with him on Friday night.”

“No, don’t do that.”  It seems like the words are out of her mouth before she can even think them, and she does her best to ignore her son’s sly grin of triumph. “You’ll just embarrass the poor guy.”

Henry’s grin widens.  “Well, I guess you’ll just have to tell him yourself then.  See you after school.” 

She blinks and he’s gone, his sneakered feet pounding away from her and towards the front door as she shouts after him. “Your permission slip is on the hallway table and we’re  _so_  not finished talking about this!”

“Thanks!” 

The front door slams behind him, and Emma lets out a long breath, then looks down at the phone she’s still clutching so tightly that her knuckles are white. 

She _would_ like to have dinner with Killian, but not like this. Not only that, she can hardly send a text message confessing that technically it had been Henry who’d asked him out to dinner.  She’s going to have to tell him in person, and the sooner the better.

 _Crap._  

 

~*~

 

A lot of words come to mind when she thinks of Killian Jones, words like reclusive, annoyingly sarcastic and irritatingly good-looking.  

She’d never expected  _kind_  to be one of them, at least not when she’d first met him.

Well, when she says  _met_ , she actually means slammed into on the street outside her apartment building while she was running late one morning six months ago. He had been poised to unlock the front door of  _Neverland_ , the small travel agency that had opened up next to her building a few weeks earlier.  She’d been too busy juggling her purse and her gym bag and pulling on her gloves and worrying that she hadn’t given Henry enough money for lunch to notice the immovable object in her path until it was too late.

If real life was like the movies, her slamming into him at seven in the morning would have been called a ‘meet cute’ and they would have ended up flirting over coffee.  Sadly, her life had never followed the fairytale formula.  Her victim had merely grunted in annoyance, even after their eyes had met (a sure fire moment in the movies), and dusted himself off. 

_He’s half a head taller than her, with dark, messy hair that goes well with his unshaven jaw, and dressed in black from head to toe, right down to his scarf and gloves.  He doesn’t help her pick up her bag or her gloves (another movie opportunity lost right there), and she’s the first one to speak, gesturing with concern at his left arm, which he’s holding at an awkward angle, his hand oddly stiff.  “God, I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”_

_Incredibly blue eyes flash with some dark emotion, then he bends to pick up his fallen keys with his right hand.  “No more than the mooring accident that took my hand in the first place, darling.”_

_Her gaze drops to his gloved left hand before she can control the impulse._ Shit. _As her face flames red with embarrassment, it occurs to her that she’s never heard anyone infuse the word_ darling  _with quite as much resentment before._

_She would soon realise that she’d never met anyone quite like Killian Jones._

_“_ _I’m really sorry about slamming into you but I’m late for an early meeting at work.”  His answer to that is to unlock the door to_ Neverland  _without saying a word.  Unfortunately, his silence only fills her with the compulsion to keep talking. “I live there,” she points behind them, “and I really do normally look where I’m going, but-”_

 _“_ _Tell me, darling.”  His accent is both clipped and lilting and does very odd things to the pit of her stomach, despite his mocking tone. “Do you leave for work at the same time every morning?”_

_She blinks at that, wondering if he’d just done some kind of weird U-turn and decided to hit on her instead of trying to pretend she didn’t exist. “Uh, usually, yeah. Why?”_

_(Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been polite, but he is definitely easy on the eyes.)_

_He looks at her as though she’d just asked him if he’d ever considered that the earth really_ was _flat.  “So I know what time_ not  _to be standing here, of course.”_

_He vanishes into the small office without another word or backward glance, leaving her feeling like the complete idiot he obviously thought she was and even later for her staff meeting than she’d already been._

_“_ _Well, screw you too, pal,” she mutters as she takes off in the direction of the bus stop, vowing there and then that if she sees him again, she’ll take great pleasure in giving him the coldest cold shoulder of his life._

_Her plan to ignore Killian Jones might have worked too, if it wasn’t for Henry.  Her son, the eternal champion of the underdog, the finder of injured birds, the kid who kept nagging her to move to a house so they can adopt a dog from the shelter._

_Two weeks after she first encounters the owner of_ Neverland _,_ _Henry casually drops his name into conversation at dinner.  “We should go to Maine one weekend.”_

_Emma’s fork stops halfway to her mouth.  “Any particular reason?”_

_“_ _Killian says there’s good fishing and sailing there.”_

_She resists the urge to press the back of her hand against Henry’s forehead to see if he’s running a fever.   She’s used to random topics of conversation and lightening quick changes of mood, but her son has never once expressed an interest in sailing or fishing.  “Who’s Killian?”_

_Henry levels a long-suffering look at her (the one that always makes her feel like he’s the parent and she’s the child) as he stabs his fork into a piece of cauliflower.  “You know, the guy with one hand who owns the travel agency downstairs.”_

_Emma digests this piece of information, then choses her words carefully.  “When did you meet him?”_

_“_ _Last week.” Her son suddenly seems overly interested in his cauliflower cheese. “The day I forgot to take my house key to school with me.”_

_Another new piece of information.  “I didn’t know you’d forgotten your key.”_

_She can almost_ feel  _him squirming in his seat.  Henry had always prided himself on being responsible enough to be home by himself the two afternoons a week that she has to work a longer shift.  She’s disappointed he hadn’t told her about forgetting his keys, but not surprised.  “I didn’t want you to worry.”_

_She’d often thought her son would make a great politician, because there is literally no situation he couldn’t spin. She smothers her grin with a mouthful of rice, then swallows.  “Nice try, kid, but I have the feeling you were thinking more along the lines of not having your home alone status revoked.”_

_“_ _Anyway,_ _” he interjects hastily, “I thought I’d just hang around downstairs until you got home, and_ Neverland  _had all these amazing pictures and stuff in the window.  There was even this huge model pirate ship in the corner._ That _was awesome.”_

_Emma’s heart sinks.  She’s heard this particular enthusiasm from her son before, and the last thing she wants is for Henry to become attached to yet another potential male role model, only to have his hopes dashed.  “You went into his office?”_

_“Yeah_ _.” Henry looks faintly defensive.  “But only after he stuck his head out through the doorway and told me that if I stared any harder I might put a hole in the glass and that I was welcome to come in and look around if I wanted.”_

_She presses her teeth into her bottom lip. It seems that Killian Jones is more tolerant of her son’s company than her own, but she’s not comfortable with this development at all. She’s proud that her son genuinely loves people, but one of the downsides is that he always thinks the best of everyone, even bad-tempered one-handed travel agents.  “Were you the only customer there?”_

_“_ _No, a couple of women were in there too, but I don’t think they were too interested in booking a vacation.”_

 _“_ _Why?”_

_Her son shrugs as he reaches for his soda.  “’Cause they kept looking at Killian, not the brochures.”_

_The memory of those startlingly blue eyes and melodic accent flash into Emma’s head, and she scowls at her plate.  “He didn’t mind you hanging around his office?”_

_“_ _No. It was_ great _.”  Again, the enthusiasm in her son’s voice makes her heart twinge.  “When I told him that I’d forgotten my apartment keys and that you wouldn’t be finished work for another hour, he said I could stay and read whatever I wanted until you got home.”_

_A light bulb goes on in her head.  “Was that the day you were, and I quote, just coming downstairs to meet me when I got off the bus?”_

_“_ _Yeah.”_

_She watches him eat for another moment, her mind whirring, thinking of how he’s been struggling to get his homework finished by bedtime lately.  “Henry?”_

_He looks up from his plate, his face the picture of innocence. “What?”_

_“_ _Have you been visiting Killian every time I have to work late?”_

_He hesitates, then sighs, obviously resigned to his fate.  “Yeah.”_

_Irritation prickles at her.  She isn’t mad at Henry, but at the adult who clearly doesn’t think he needs to check with her that it’s okay her son is spending his afternoons in a stranger’s company._

_After a restless night’s sleep (her dreams are filled with distorted images of the awful time she’d lost Henry at the mall when he was two), the next morning she waits outside_ Neverland _for the owner to arrive._

_He shows up just before eight, carrying a takeout coffee in his right hand, his vivid gaze widening when he realises exactly who is standing outside his door.  “If you’re here to knock me down, love, could you at least wait until I’ve drunk my coffee?”_

_The mocking tone was still there, but she ploughs ahead anyway. “I’m here to talk to you about my son.”_

_He looks confused. “Your son?”_

_“_ _Henry.  You know, your most loyal customer.”_

_His stony expression softens, if only a little.  “Henry’s your lad?”_

_She stares at him, uncomfortably aware of two things. One, he has no idea of her connection to the boy who’s been visiting his office almost every afternoon for a week and two, there was genuine affection in his voice when he says Henry’s name._

_Actually, there’s a third thing, maybe the most uncomfortable of all. He’s one of the most attractive men she’s ever laid eyes on, and that is_ not _something she needs to be thinking right now._

_“Yes, and I’ve only just found out that he’s been sitting in your travel agency for two hours after school every day instead of doing his homework.”_

_“_ _Ah.”   He turns away from her then, and she watches as he puts his takeout coffee cup down on the windowsill before pulling a set of keys out of the pocket of his leather jacket.  His movements are deft and graceful, and she finds herself wondering how long he’s been doing everything one-handed._

 _“_ _Ah?  That’s it?”_

_He unlocks the door to his office, then turns back to her with a loud sigh, reaching down to pick up his coffee cup.  “If we must have this conversation, perhaps we could have it inside?”_

_Emma has never really understood what it was like to bristle at someone, but at that moment, she understands the concept very well. Pretty face or not, this guy is seriously getting on her last nerve. “Fine.”_

_Walking into_ Neverland _is a revelation, and she instantly understands her son’s fascination with the place.  What looks like an ordinary travel agency from the outside is actually fitted out like some ancient mariner’s library, complete with various bits and pieces of nautical paraphernalia that looked authentic rather than something from a gift shop.  Sturdy bookshelves are crammed with every kind of travel guide imaginable, which make the sleek computer perched on the front counter look a little out of place._

_There are large armchairs (well-loved would have been a charitable description) grouped into reading nooks, and the walls are covered with prints of faraway places. The whole place smells of wood and paper and ink, and she finds herself taking a deep breath.  When the added hint of coffee and male aftershave hits her nose, she gives herself a mental shake._

Damn it. She’s here to talk about Henry, not gaze slack-jawed at a strange guy’s office.

_She glares at him as he puts his coffee on the front counter, unhooks the leather satchel from around his neck and turns on his computer.  It’s almost as though he’s completely forgotten that she’s there, and her next words are threaded through with irritation.  “We were talking about Henry?”_

_“_ _So we were,” is his muttered response.  “What exactly is the problem?”_

 _“_ _My_ problem _is that my son’s been sitting in your place of business for two hours almost every day for a week and I don't know anything about it.” She hesitates briefly, wondering if she’s about to offend him, but there is no way she’s leaving this office before she's made herself extremely clear.  “Or_ you _,_ _for that matter.”_

_He looks at her properly for the first time since coming into his office, and those blue eyes are as cool as the ocean in winter.  “I understand your concern, but I can assure you that your son is completely safe here.”_

_Emma searches his gaze with hers.  Her nose for lies has always been something on which she'd prided herself, and in that moment, she would swear on a stack of bibles that Killian Jones is telling her the truth._

_Still, babysitting isn’t a favour she wants to owe some random guy she doesn’t know from a hole in the ground.  “It’s very kind of you to let him hang out here, but I’d much prefer he got his homework done.  In our apartment,” she adds, in case he’s in any doubt._

_He taps the top of his takeout coffee cup with two gloved fingers of his right hand, his expression still unreadable.  “_ _Henry tells me that you work quite long hours some days.”_

 _The bristling sensation is back.  “_ _Only because I have to.”  She can hear the defensiveness in her voice, and resents him for making her feel as though she has to justify her life to a complete stranger.  “It’s not like I_ want  _him to be alone in the afternoons.”_

_“Perhaps he could do his homework while he’s here.”_

_The offer takes her completely by surprise. “Why?” He raises one dark eyebrow at her, almost as if in challenge, and she gives him a pointed look in return.  “You barely know us.”_

_If he hears the suspicion in her tone, he gives no sign of it. “_ _It makes no difference whatsoever to me if the lad comes here after school.”   His eyes lock with hers again.  “I suspect it makes a difference to_ him, _though.”_

_He’s right, and she thinks she might hate him a little for it.  “Thank you for the offer, uh-”_

Crap.  She hasn’t even asked his name.

_When she hesitates, he holds out his right hand. “Killian Jones.”_

_In her head, she can hear Henry’s voice, telling her that she doesn’t have to worry about him, that_ she’s _the one who needs more friends.  She has no idea if this Killian Jones could be a friend, but she does know she doesn’t need a new enemy in her life._

_Taking his gloved hand in hers, she gives it a quick shake. “Emma Swan.”   The thin leather does nothing to disguise the fact that his palm fits perfectly against hers, or that she can feel the heat of his skin.  She withdraws her hand as politely as she can, ignoring the sudden fluttering of her pulse._

_“As I was saying, thank you for the offer, Mr Jones, but I think Henry should do his homework in our apartment for the time being.”  She tries not to think of Henry’s reaction when she tells him her decision, but it’s for the best. “Maybe in a little while, once I’ve, uh-”_

_“Once you’ve decided I’m not a subversive lowlife?”_

_She blinks at his bluntness, but she’s not going to be cowed by this guy. “Exactly.”_

_He nods, apparently unfazed by her answer, then starts to turn back to his desk.  “Tell Henry he’s welcome to borrow that book on ancient sea faring he was reading on Friday.”_

_Emma tries to remember the last time she actually visited a travel agency. It’s not as though she and Henry take a lot of vacations, but when they do go anywhere, she books everything on-line. Even when she did visit one in person, the place looked_ nothing _like this.  She glances around the room, gesturing hesitantly to the large (and ancient looking) map of the world mounted on the wall behind the front counter._

_“What are you, some kind of historian?”_

_The corner of his wide mouth twitches in the closest thing she’s seen to a smile. “Just a travel buff.”_

_An awkward silence descends, and it’s with relief that she makes a show of checking her watch.  “Crap, I’ve gotta get to work.”   She’s not due at the medical centre until nine this morning, but he doesn’t have to know that.  There’s something about the stillness of his expression combined with those brilliant, too-knowing eyes that makes her feel off-kilter, and the sooner she’s put some distance between herself and Killian Jones, the better.  “Thank you for letting Henry camp out here.”_

_He blinks slowly, his lashes dark against his skin, then nods. “He’s a good lad.”_

_With that, he shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it on a hook behind the front counter, and she knows she’s been dismissed.  There’s no polite ‘_ you’re welcome’ _or_ ‘pleased to meet you’ _, and she honestly doesn’t know if she’s relieved or disappointed._

_It’s not hard to detect Henry’s disappointment, however.  He scowls into his dinner that night, arguing with her from the washing of his hands to the finishing of his dessert. When she doesn’t budge, he politely excuses himself and heads for his room, but she knows she hasn’t heard the last of this._

_Her son definitely takes after her when it comes to the stubborn gene._

_Their daily routine falls back into its usual pattern.  She knows Henry stops in to say hello to Killian most days when he gets off the school bus, but he only stays long enough to return a book he’s been reading and pick another one._

_Or so he says.  She has the feeling that Henry’s idea of a short visit might be somewhere flexible. He regales her over dinner with stories of what customers were booking holidays, how Killian had shown this old guy a way to save thousands of dollars on a trip to France to see where his father had fought in the first World War, how one afternoon he’d helped Killian stack a shelf with some new books about Antarctica and wouldn’t it be amazing to take one of those cruises through the icebergs?_

_Emma has to admit, after two weeks of this, she feels more than a little left out, and it’s no one’s fault but her own._

_She’s also a little tired of hearing Killian Jones being described as a cross between Indiana Jones and Long John Silver._

_“Pretty sure that’s not true,” she tells her son gently one night when he spins her a very unlikely theory that Killian is actually a famous explorer, hiding out from the bad guys who might force him to steal treasure on their behalf.  “Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that in a movie more than once.”_

_Henry just gives her that smug smile of his, the one that means no amount of cold, hard reality can ruin his imagination, and she can’t help smiling back._

_God, how she loves him, this kid who can make the best out of any situation, the kid who thinks she’s amazing, despite the fact that she never finished college and works as a glorified receptionist at the medical center on the other side of town._

_It might be just the two of them against the world, she thinks, but so far, they’re doing okay._

_*_

_Two weeks after their first meeting, Killian Jones finally smiles at her._

_She's passing the front of_ Neverland _,_ _her feet aching after too long a day wearing new shoes. She glances inside (she_ always _glances inside, she can’t help it), and sees him sitting on the battered chaise lounge next to an elderly woman, who is beaming at the brochure he’s obviously explaining to her._

_As if he feels the weight of her gaze, he glances up at exactly the right time, his teeth flashing white against his dark beard when his eyes meet hers._

_The smile changes his whole face, making him look younger, more approachable._

_It makes him look as though he’s actually happy to see her._

_Emma almost trips over her own feet._ _She lifts a weak hand in greeting but forces herself to keep walking towards the entrance of her apartment building._ _Her pulse is racing, fluttering like a tiny trapped animal beneath her skin. Even worse, she can hardly feel the pinching of her shoes anymore._

_Fuck._

_Once she’s hidden in the safety of the elevator and headed for her floor, she puts her hand to her chest and tells herself that she’s an idiot, that she can’t get involved with anyone.  Henry is her world right now, and she refuses to put him through anymore of her romantic upheavals._

_*_

_Slowly but surely, without her even realising it, Killian Jones becomes a firm fixture on the fringe of her life._

_Henry clearly likes him, and his dedication to his schoolwork has shown a marked improvement.  She’s less stressed about the few afternoons a week she has to work late, because she knows Henry will have his head buried safely in a book, whether it’s in their apartment or in a back corner of_ Neverland.

 _After the first few months, it dawns on her that they’re both using Henry as a conduit of information.  Not intentionally, of course, but when she works out that everything she’s learned about the guy has been filtered through her son (and vice versa), she thinks that maybe it’s time she sucked it up and visited_ Neverland _herself._

_Which, she thinks as she remembers all those childhood stories about Peter Pan, isn’t something she’d ever thought she’d say._

_Irony rears its head the next day, however, when she sees_ Neverland’s _front door locked up tight and the small sign inside the window noting that the office will be closed until Friday morning.  Emma frowns, knowing that Henry had said nothing to her about Killian taking time off, then heads for her bus stop._

_On Friday, she manages to organise a half-day, and meets Henry when he gets off the school bus.  His eyes light up when he sees her, making her heart jolt with a rush of tenderness. He’s twelve now, his head almost reaching her shoulder, but he still looks at her as though he thinks she’s amazing._

_“This is great,” he enthuses as he falls into step beside her.  “Are we going for pizza?”_

_She laughs. “Maybe later.”  Judging they’re a safe enough distance from his school friends, she puts her arm around his shoulders and gives him a hug. “I thought we might go visit Killian.”_

_If she thought he was happy to see her before, now he’s positively gleeful.  On the short half-block walk, he rattles off all the things she needs to see, all the things he needs to show her.  In fact, he keeps talking right up to the moment they walk into Neverland to see Killian embracing a dark-haired woman next to the front counter, her face buried against his shoulder._

_As surprises go, it’s definitely an unpleasant one._

_Emma tries to look everywhere but at the entwined couple, but it’s like her gaze is drawn by magnets.  When Killian catches sight of them, something odd flashes in his eyes, and she sees him murmur something to the woman in his arms.  The woman pulls back, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Emma realises that she’s crying._

_Henry, being the twelve year old that he is, seems oblivious. “Killian’s busy, but I can show you that Antarctica stuff.”  She feels the press of her son’s hand on her back, then she’s being gently pushed towards the back of the large space that makes up Killian’s place of business, and all the while her stomach is churning coldly.  She is a fool and an idiot because she’s half-fallen in love with the idea of someone who doesn’t actually exist, and you’d think she’d be better at this kind of thing now that she’s almost thirty, but apparently not._

_After five minutes of feigning enthusiasm for icebergs and fur seals and penguins, a shadow falls across their hidden corner.  “Well, this is a surprise.”_

_She takes a deep breath and glances upwards, her mouth going dry when she realises he’s looking straight at her, rather than Henry. “Sorry if we interrupted you.”_

_She didn’t mean to infuse her words with anything other than apology, but they both hear the silent accusation in them.  His right eyebrow arches like a damned question mark, then he leans against the high back of Henry’s chair.  “My sister-in-law’s been visiting from London for the week,” he discloses in a short, flat voice.  “Well, she’s my brother’s widow, to be more precise. Liam’s been gone almost two years now, but we’re both still adjusting, I’m afraid.”_

_“God, I’m so sorry. About your brother, I mean.” Emma’s heart drops like a stone, right down to her toes, and heat prickles the back of her neck. “And you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”_

_“I know.”   He glances at Henry, who is still eagerly flicking pages, then back at her.  “But I wanted to.”_

_Her breath catches in her throat, because he’s looking at her in a way he’s_ never _once looked at her before, his eyes softly bright, his mouth quirking in a strangely shy smile._

_“Hey, can I borrow this one for the weekend?”_

_Emma bites her lip as Killian glances down at Henry.  She loves her son, she really does, but sometimes his timing truly sucks._

_“Indeed you can, Master Swan.”_

_She’s not so bedazzled by the breathless tension still buzzing in the air that she’s forgotten her parental duties. “What’s the magic word, Henry?”_

_The prized book now firmly clasped to his slender chest, her son waggles his eyebrows at her. “Pizza?”_

_It’s only when Killian laughs that Emma realises she’s never heard him do such a thing before today.  It’s a full, rich laugh that bubbles up from his chest, and she swears she almost feels it brush against the skin of her cheeks and throat.  “I suspect your lovely mother meant for you to say_ please _, Henry,” he prompts her son, and Emma’s face grows hot with a blush she dearly hopes doesn’t show._

_He thinks she’s lovely._

_Fuck._

_Somehow, she manages to get out of_ Neverland _without doing something embarrassing like inviting Killian to come upstairs for coffee.  She knows without being told that Henry wants her to ask him to come with them for pizza, but it’s not yet four in the afternoon, and she knows Killian never closes his office before six.  It’s the perfect excuse to stammer a goodbye and haul Henry out the door and retreat to the sanctuary of their little two bedroom apartment._

_She needs some time to think._

_She’s not good at this kind of thing._

_She’s not good at getting people to stick around, and she wants Killian Jones to stick around.  Not just for her, but for Henry.  If it comes down to a choice between her going on a date and her son being happy, she’ll chose Henry, every time._

_She tells herself that she’s happy with that._

_Maybe one day, she’ll believe it._

_*_

_Over the next few months, she learns a lot more about Killian Jones.  How he’d lost his hand when he was twenty, on a sailing trip with his brother.  How Liam had been a rock for him afterwards, during all the rehabilitation (both physical and mental) he’d been put through, but also how his brother had been wracked with guilt, blaming himself for Killian’s accident.  Their relationship had become fractured for almost a year, during which Killian moved to the US and Liam had married his long-time girlfriend. They’d managed to find their way back to each other, though, and Killian’s eyes had glowed when he’d told Emma of the sailing trip they’d taken around Scotland and Ireland, freezing their butts off and loving every minute of it._

_Two years later, Liam was gone, lost to a careless driver on a wet road.  His wife was a widow, and Killian had felt as though he’d just found his brother only to lose him a second time.   He’d come back to the US and buried himself in books and maps, obsessing over all the places he and Liam had planned to journey as children, until he’d almost made himself sick with grief._

_One morning, he’d struck up a conversation with an elderly man while waiting for a bus. The old guy’s inside arm had borne a faded anchor, the blue ink a shadow of its former glory, and Killian had felt the sudden urge to ask about it.   The old man’s eyes had lit up, and two hours and three missed buses later, Killian felt as though he’d journeyed half-way around the world through the other man’s eyes. He’d been a merchant sailor, and still missed the sea air in his old lungs when he was away from it for too long._

_Finally, a farewell handshake had turned into a back-slapping hug, then the old man had hobbled onto a bus, leaving Killian with the firm knowledge that Liam would be most disappointed in him if he kept burying himself alive._

_He couldn’t bring himself to sail again, not without Liam._

_Perhaps, though, there was another way to expand his horizons._

_He’d opened_ Neverland _a year later, wanting to share that same exhilaration he’d felt when the old man had shared his stories, and the rest was history. He still thinks about that old man, Killian tells her.  Funny thing, he never saw him again, even though he was often at that same bus stop at the same time of day._

_She listens to him as he shares his secrets over the days and weeks, and then eventually, hesitantly, she tells him about Neal.  She tells him about finding herself pregnant at eighteen, about getting the call that Neal had been arrested on three charges of breaking and entering the very afternoon she was planning to tell him about the baby._

_She tells him about crying alone in the room she rented in the women’s only boarding house, knowing she couldn’t have this baby, knowing she needed to go to college. She tells him that in the end, she couldn’t bear to get rid of the one person who might actually love her enough to stick around._

_On both occasions, he pulls out a small silver flask of what she soon learns is top-shelf rum from beneath the front counter, then adds two small shot glasses. On both occasions, the toast is the same._

_“Here’s mud in your eye, Swan.”_

_The rum doesn’t burn so much the second time, but maybe that’s because she’s too busy using his hastily produced handkerchief to wipe her tears and blow her nose._

_(Is she seriously considering pursuing a relationship with a man who carries a neatly ironed handkerchief?_

_Yes. Yes, she is.)_

_There’s just one problem. He’s the closest thing she’s got to a man in her life, but he seems completely content with the current status quo.  They chat a few times a week (no phone calls or texts, not yet) and every now and then the three of them_ do _go for pizza after he’s closed_ Neverland’s _doors.  He lives only eight blocks from her, in a place overlooking the water, but he’s never once suggested she and Henry visit him after hours.  He’s polite and kind and a complete gentleman, both with her and with Henry, and when she’s not incredibly frustrated by the feeling of treading water, she’s amazed at the change in him._

_She’s changed too._

_She wants to try._

_She wants to see what might be possible._

_She just doesn’t know how to change course._

_*_

Six months after she’d first slammed into Killian on the street, she stands outside the front door of _Neverland_ just before closing time on a Monday evening, her hands twisting nervously as she rehearses the beyond embarrassing apology she’s come to make.

She takes a deep breath, and almost feels the phantom push of Henry’s hand on her back.

_He likes you too, you know._

She steps through the door into the cool, dimness of Killian’s office, the familiar scent of wood and paper and aftershave immediately teasing her nose.  The owner (both of the office and the aftershave) is nowhere to be seen, however, and Emma is just about to breathe a sigh of relief and make a hasty retreat when Killian’s dark head pops out from between two bookshelves at the other end of the room.

“Swan!”  He grins at her, and she wonders how she ever thought his face stern and unfriendly.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She lets the glass door close behind her, the faint tinkle of the bell above her head oddly jarring. “I hope you’ll still call it that after you hear what I have to say.”

“Ah, but your company is _always_ a pleasure.” There’s the thud of a book falling over on the shelf behind him, and he mutters something under his breath. “These old first editions are always so fractious when it comes to being put in their place,” he tells her, his mouth curving in a wry smile. “Let me just finish this and I’ll be right with you.”

She tucks her purse behind the front counter, then shrugs out of her jacket. “Can I help?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You mean, do I need a hand?”

She rolls her eyes, knowing he expects her to do just that.  “Really? That joke’s not getting tired for you at all?”

His smile grows.  “One doesn’t mess with the classics, love.”   He ducks back between the bookcases, and she hears another thud. “Well, if you’re helping, come on then.”

It’s the first time she’s been alone with him in such a confined space, and she suddenly wishes she’d spent more time on her hair and makeup before she’d left the apartment.   They’re standing so close that she could easily reach up and map the tiny scar on his right cheek with her fingertip. “What do you want me to do?”

He shoots her a quick glance and, for the first time in weeks, she sees that strange shyness in his eyes.  He clears his throat, then nods at the box close to her feet. “If you wouldn’t mind unpacking those, I would be forever grateful.”  He lifts his left hand - he’s wearing the flesh-coloured prosthetic today – and pulls a face.  “Once they’re out of the box, I’m fine, but until they are-”

She grins at his cross-eyed expression, hoping like hell he can’t hear the hammering of her heart. “Say no more.”

They work together easily for several minutes, the silence only broken by his occasional asides about the volumes they’re unpacking. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but I much prefer Gerald Durrell’s travel observations to those of his more literally acclaimed brother.”

Emma has no idea what he’s talking about, but pats him on the shoulder reassuringly anyway.  “Your secret is safe with me.”

He seems to realise she’s touching him at the same time she registers the solid warmth of his shoulder under her palm.   His throat works as he swallows hard, then reaches up to slide another leather-bound volume into its correct place.   “Speaking of secrets, I believe you had something to tell me?”

She pulls her hand away, hooking her thumb into the pocket of her jeans.  “I got your text this morning.”

He ducks his head almost shyly, but his smile is a pleased one.  “I was surprised to see yours, I must admit. I didn’t think I’d given you my number.”

“You didn’t.”  God, this is harder that she thought it was going to be, but she refuses to start this (whatever the hell _this_ is) with a lie.  She tilts her head towards the front counter, where a small silver tray holds a wedge of his business cards.  “Henry got your number.”

“And he gave it to you?”  He takes the book from her arms, giving her a bright blue wink in the process.  “I knew he was a good lad.”

She is going to _kill_ her son, she decides, slowly and painfully.  “Not exactly.”

He slides the last book into place, then turns to regard her steadily.  “Spit it out, Swan.”

“Henry sent the text inviting you out to dinner, not me. He, uh, thought I needed a push.”

The words seem to hang in the air between them, and her heart sinks at the disappointment in his eyes.   “I see.”  

“Killian, it’s not that I don’t want to-”

“It’s fine, Swan.”  He rubs the back of his neck with his good hand, a gesture she’s noticed he employs whenever he’s trying to think of the right words to say to a misguided customer.  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I know.”  Screwing up all her courage, she closes the distance between them with one step, lifting her hand to touch his face.  “But I wanted to.”

She sees recognition of his own words flare in his eyes, and something deep inside her flickers into life, something that feels a lot like hope.  He watches her as she finally gives into the urge to trace the faint scar on his cheek, and she hears his breathing change, sees the way his eyes darken.

The next step is suddenly very easy.

She rises up on her toes in the same heartbeat that he bows his head, and when his mouth finally touches hers, she knows she’s finally discovered the elusive destination she’s been seeking her whole life.

 

~*~

 

 

She keeps her Friday night date.

She also tries not to blush too obviously when Henry reminds her that he’s having a sleepover at his friend’s house that night.   “I’ll be home by twelve tomorrow,” he informs her. “Please don’t traumatise me.”

 _God, kill her now._ “I’ll do my best, kid.”

Her doorbell rings at precisely eight o’clock, the sound sending a shudder of anticipation through her whole body.   She runs her hands through her hair, then walks to the front door, managing not to wrench it open like she’s a teenaged girl on her first date ever.  “Jones.”

Killian grins.  “Swan.”

Stepping back, she waves him inside, noting that he’s carrying a bottle of merlot (her favourite, something he probably gleaned from Henry) and is wearing a pair of black jeans that makes her view as he passes extremely distracting.   “I didn’t know where you had in mind to dine, so we may not be able to take the wine, but a gentleman never arrives empty-handed, so-”

Emma hovers in the hallway, watching him as he sets the bottle of wine down on her kitchen countertop.  She doesn’t want to eat.  She doesn’t want to leave the apartment.  What she wants is for Killian Jones to kiss her until her lips are swollen and her breath is burning her throat.

To be honest, she wants to do a hell of a lot more than kissing.

She moves towards him, watching the way he’s watching her, the way his gaze lingers on the sway of her hips and the V-neck of her sweater. “I thought we might stay in.”

“Well, takeout’s fine with me, love-” He trails off, his gaze sliding down to take note of her feet, clad in her favourite black socks, then up to her breasts.   She sees the instant he realises she’s not wearing a bra beneath her sweater, then his eyes meet hers with a silent _click._ “Ah.” Without another word, he moves to her side, his right hand coming up to touch her face. “You know a man’s truly out of practice when he’s woefully slow on the romantic uptake.”

He gives her enough time to smile at that, then he kisses her, slow and deep, his tongue warm and firm as it slides between her lips. _Jesus._ The few kisses they’d exchanged on Monday night in his office had been unhurried and tender, both of them still feeling the weight of the last six months.  This kiss, though –

This kiss has her clutching at his shoulders, her mouth opening under his in answer to his silent question, her teeth nipping at the swell of his bottom lip.   This kiss has her breathless in seconds, rocking her hips against his to find him already hard and wanting her, the ridge of his erection digging into her belly.   She pulls her mouth away, her lips tingling with the taste of him, and tries to catch her breath.  “Woah.”

He runs his hand through his hair, looking as though he’s just woken up after a long sleep and is trying to find his bearings.  “Woah, indeed.”

She gestures towards the couch.  God, her hand is actually _shaking_.  “Maybe we should sit down?”

He purses his lips, and she knows he’s about to make a joke, trying to diffuse the situation.  “Are you sure that’s wise, love?”

He’s giving her an out, and she’s grateful, but she’s not going anywhere.  “I don’t know about wise, but it’ll _definitely_ be more fun.”

Heat blazes in his eyes at that, even as he grins, and suddenly she finds herself swept off her feet.  Literally.

The idiot actually carries her to the couch, placing her on it with exaggerated care.  When he starts to straighten up, she grabs two handfuls of his black button-down and yanks hard.  He lands on top of her with a soft _oof,_ then his mouth covers hers in a searing kiss, the weight of his body pressing her into the couch in the best possible way.

She wriggles beneath him until he’s right where she wants him to be, his hips cradled between her thighs, and he buries his head in the crook of her neck, breathing an obscenity against her skin. “Fucking hell, love.”

Desire beats a heavy pulse between her legs, making her restless.  Reckless. Curling her legs around his hips, she slips her hands beneath his shirt, gently scraping her fingernails against the smooth skin of his back.  Marvelling at the words that are coming out of her mouth, she kisses, then bites the sharp curve of his jaw. “Do you care if we don’t have dinner until later?”

“At this moment, Swan, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about dinner.” He kisses her with an intensity that makes her toes curl in her socks, then he slips his hand beneath her sweater to cup her breast, his thumbnail a sharp pleasure-pain against her tight nipple.  When she gasps into his mouth, he kisses her harder, his tongue hotly curling around hers, and in a final blur of common sense, she knows she has to get him into her bed or they will be fucking right here, on her new couch where she sits and watches television with her son.

She doesn’t let him carry her to her bedroom, and her punishment is to be walked backwards, his mouth hot on her throat, his hand tight on her hip, not once letting go.   In between kisses, he tells her that she’s beautiful, inside and out, that he’s wanted her from the moment he saw her but didn’t let himself believe she’d ever feel the same way.  

He’d never given up hope, though, he tells her as he gently peels the sweater up and over her head, his head bowing to kiss her breasts in turn.  When her text had arrived, asking him out to dinner, he’d almost gone done on his knees and given thanks.  

“I would have asked you myself eventually,” she murmurs, her hands tightening in his messy hair as he strokes his fingertips down her belly to tease the lace edge of her underwear.  “I just needed a little push.”

His eyes are impossibly blue as he gazes down at her. “I’m very glad it was in _my_ direction, love.”

In answer, she slips her hand between them, palming the thick thrust of his erection through his jeans as she flashes him a dirty smile.  “Me too.”

It’s a little awkward at first – his prosthetic hand needs to come off, and there’s the usual struggle with buttons and zippers and shoes and condoms, but when he’s finally inside her, a thick and stretching heat that has her shuddering with pleasure, none of that matters.  

He presses his forehead against hers, his mint-scented breath sharp in her nose, and she can feel him shaking with the effort of being still.  She kisses him softly, running her tongue along his bottom lip, then arches beneath him, taking him deeper inside her.

“Oh, _Emma._ ”

He tucks his maimed left arm beneath the pillows, carrying his weight on his elbows, and somewhere amidst the pleasure and hunger, she knows he’s trying to hide it from her.  She wants to tell him that she doesn’t care, that she’s never cared, then he kisses her, his right hand sliding between their bodies, his thumb dipping into the slick heat where he’s buried so deep inside her to press and tease, and all her words seem to vanish.

Time blurs and shifts, the heat between them reducing every tiny detail to intense, minute bites of sensation.  The crisp hair on his chest and stomach scraping against her breasts and belly, the scent of his skin, rich and spicy, filling her nose. The push and drag of his cock inside her, rubbing and teasing aching flesh that swells and tightens with every new thrust.  

His mouth is hot on her breasts, teeth sharp on her nipples, and she returns the favour without conscious thought, leaving her mark on his chest, tasting his rough groan as she scrapes her teeth over his skin.

“Next time,” he whispers, his mouth hot against her ear, “I want my head buried between your legs, tasting you.”

It’s an image so vivid that she almost climaxes from the suggestion alone.   _Jesus Christ._ He keeps moving, thrusting deeply, and spasm of pleasure clenches around the thick heat of him.  Her breasts are aching now, her legs and hips stiffening with the familiar prickle of release, and she manages to breathe out two very important words. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”   Sliding his hand up her thigh, he pulls it higher on his hip, and she sees white spots behind her eyelids, because everything’s rubbing and pressing right where she needs it and she’s there, she’s almost there and –

“ _Killian_. Oh, God.   _Fuck.”_

She falls apart beneath him, shuddering and keening, his name falling from her lips as she tosses back her head, almost mindless with the need to make this last, she can’t bear for it to stop, she needs this, needs him.

He fucks her through it, pushing her as far as she’ll allow until it’s too much, too intense, until she’s spent and trembling.  Then he grows still, his sweat-slicked back shivering beneath her hands, then she feels the hot pulse of his body inside hers. His eyes are screwed shut, his face beautiful in the agony of pleasure, as though he’s seen a vision of the fucking Promised Land and it’s _her_ , she’s his happy ending, and she knows she should be terrified but she isn’t, not any more.  

He falls into her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, mouthing her name like a prayer against her skin.  For a long moment, the harsh sound of their breathing is the only sound in the room, competing with the buzzing of her pulse in her ears.  

Finally, she combs her fingers through his damp hair, sweeping it back from his forehead.  The frown that she’d thought was permanently etched on his skin seems to have vanished, and she smiles.  “What was that about _next time_?”

He chuckles, the soft rumble in his chest humming against her breast.  “Like I said, love, I’ve become quite the hopeful man where you’re concerned.”  He kisses the curve of her breast, then her mouth, his lips warm and soft, and she has to fight the urge to stretch like an extremely contented cat.    

“Well, I can guarantee that there will be a next time.” She has plans for him, too, but her stomach is in danger of rumbling.  “Right now, though, I’m starving.”

He bites gently at her shoulder, then kisses the reddened skin with a tenderness that has her breath catching in her throat. She waits for him to make a ridiculous joke about being hungry for other things, but he just gives her a boyish smile that warms her right down to her toes.  “I seem to have worked up quite the appetite myself.”

The snort that comes out of her nose is far from ladylike, and she’s happy to find that she doesn’t give a damn.  “The takeout menus are in the top drawer in the kitchen.” She flashes him a smile, suddenly feeling as giddy as if they’d already downed the bottle of merlot that’s still waiting to be opened.  “Order whatever you want. Turkish would be good, though.”  

He grins, his eyes glowing with admiration.  “Oh, I _do_ like a woman who knows what she wants.”

“I usually get there. “ She feels her own mouth stretch in a grin.  “Eventually.”

 

~*~

 

Much later, after they’d inhaled what seemed like way too much food from her favourite Turkish café, she lazily curls her fingers through the soft hair on his chest, exploring the firm muscles beneath his warm skin.  “Can I ask you something?”

His own hand is smoothing over the curve of her bare shoulder, making goosebumps spring up in the wake of his touch. “Anything.”

“Why _Neverland_?”

“It was my favourite tale as a lad.  Liam’s too.”  He smiles, but it’s a bittersweet thing. “He favoured the infamous pirate captain, whereas I championed the traditional hero, as was right and proper in my ten year’s eyes.”   His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and she feels his shortened left arm shift against her hip.  “Pretty bloody ironic, now that I think on it.”  He stares at the ceiling, his gaze seeming to look far beyond the smooth white paint.  “My brother will never grow old, and I’m the one with an attachment for a hand.”  He looks at her, his mouth curving in a quick smile.  “For the record, I’ve never actually tried a hook.”

Reaching down, she gently grasps his left wrist, drawing it up to lay between her bare breasts.  He seems to be holding his breath, his eyes dark with faint trepidation, and she doesn’t look away from his face as she smooths her fingers over the ruined flesh and scarred skin.  When she lifts it to her mouth to press a lingering kiss to his skin, he makes a thick sound in the back of his throat, and she feels his wrist trembling in her grasp.  “I want to know every part of you, okay? Even the bits you hide from everyone else.”

He breathes out, his sigh whispering over her skin as his right hand finds hers in the tangled bedclothes.  “And I you.”

He stays the night, his chest solid and warm against her back, his hand heavy on her hip.  Just before the soft haze of sleep claims her, she thinks that maybe she should give her son a raise in his allowance.

 

 

~*~

 

 

They’re sitting together at the breakfast nook, pleasantly exhausted but fully dressed, when she hears the sound of Henry’s key turning in the lock.    Kilian flashes a look of concern at her, but she waves an airy hand.  “Trust me, he’ll be fine. To be honest, he’ll be kind of unbearable once he finds out his plan worked.”

Henry’s footsteps make their way down the hallway, then her son appears, his dark eyes widening when he realises she’s got company. He drops his overnight bag with a thump, his smile triumphant.  “Hey.”

“I’m glad you’re home, Henry.” Emma bites in the inside of her cheek, trying to make her voice as stern as possible.  It’s pretty hard when she’s feeling so damned good, but somehow she manages it.  “Killian’s here to discuss with you the very serious matter of impersonating someone via text message.”

Her son’s face falls, and out of the corner of her eye, Emma sees Killian doing his best to keep a straight face.   “Really?”

She tries to keep it going, but he looks so disappointed, she can’t do it.  “No, not really.  Go change into some clean clothes and we’ll go out for pizza.”

Henry looks at Killian warily, as if he’s still worried this is all part of some elaborate hoax.  “The three of us?”

“Yes, lad.”   Killian rubs the back of his neck, clearly feeling the weight of the occasion, but the sincerity in his voice as he addresses her son makes Emma’s chest tighten.  “I would like the chance to formally thank you for giving your mother a push in the right direction.”

Henry’s eyes widen once more, and he looks at Emma. “So I’m not grounded?”

Emma shrugs.  “I didn’t say _that_.”

His slight jaw clenches at this injustice. “But-”

She grins at him, shaking her head. “God, you’re easy.”

“Phew.” Her son heads towards his bedroom, hopefully to emerge in clothes that haven’t endured a teenaged sleepover.  Feeling Killian’s gaze on her, she smooths a self-conscious hand through her hair.

“What?”

“I’m sorry I forced your son’s hand, love.”  He looks faintly sheepish.  “I should have been open with my feelings far sooner.”

Leaning sideways in her seat, Emma rests her chin on his shoulder, slinging one arm around his back.  “Well, you’ll just have to make up for lost time then, won’t you?”  

His mouth is firm and warm, the delicate curl of his tongue around hers making her squirm in her seat, heat blooming between her legs like a flower.  

“Urgh. _Really?_ ”

 _Crap._ She could have sworn Henry had just left the room, but apparently not.  Time really does fly when you’re having fun, she thinks hazily.  

She pulls back, giving Killian a reassuring smile before turning to address her son, who is standing in the doorway wearing a clean shirt and a mildly scandalised expression.  “Well, you know what they say.”  Killian’s hand a warm weight on her knee, she grins at Henry, knowing he’s happy for her, despite his teenaged dramatics. “Be careful what you wish for, kid.”

 

~*~

 

Emma dons her sunglasses, beyond glad that she’d decided to braid her hair before they’d set out this morning.   She doesn’t really mind the wind, though.  She’s warm in her sheltered nook, and she stretches out her legs in front of her, smiling at the feel of the sun on her bare legs.  

As the _Straight on ‘til Morning_ changes tack, Emma lifts her hand to shade her eyes (drugstore sunglasses can only do so much out on the water) and watches Killian and Henry, who are talking animatedly as they do mysterious things with ropes and jigs, or whatever the hell they’re called.  

The broad grin on her son’s tanned face is almost enough to bring her to tears.

As it turns out, Killian had been right all those months ago.  Maine really is a beautiful place to go sailing.

 

~*~


End file.
